


The Hollow Crown

by Daughterofthesea



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, The Hollow Crown (2012), The Hollow Crown: The Wars of the Roses (2016), The Sunne in Splendour - Sharon Kay Penman, The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Medieval History, The Wars of the Roses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-06-10 17:42:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6966826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daughterofthesea/pseuds/Daughterofthesea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of shorts and one-shots based in medieval England.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground  
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;  
How some have been deposed; some slain in war,  
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;  
Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;  
All murder'd: for within the hollow crown  
That rounds the mortal temples of a king  
Keeps Death his court." - 'Richard II', William Shakespeare


	2. As Long As There Will Be Rain, There Will Be Clear Skies After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is December 1460, and the Duke of York faces the men of his enemy in battle at Wakefield with his second son Edmund fighting by his side.
> 
> Eight year old Richard is left fatherless and one brother short by the time the day is over.

December 1460

The boy looked up in wonder. The falcon he had been given for his last birthday soared high overhead. His valet coaxed the bird back down and it landed on a leather glove on his arm. Richard stroked the bird tenderly, feeling the soft feathers beneath his fingertips. He eyed the bird in awe; such a fearsome creature and a skilled predator, and here it was, allowing him to stroke its feathers! It was almost as placid as the kitten that his sister had adopted (although the kitten was much more temperamental).  
Richard laughed as the bird fluffed out its feathers and stretched its wings. The valet smiled down at the boy. He was eight years old.

************

 

All adults seem to fall victim to the same curse; they all somehow labour under the misconception that an eight year old cannot, and will not, discover their whisperings. They all send the children to bed and believe that they are safe to voice their concerns away from the prying ears of youngsters.  
Richard found it hard not to giggle. He had snuck out of the bedchamber that he shared with brother George and sat positioned on the stairs in such a manner that he could hear all that was said on the floor down below, but in such a way that the shadows gave him their protection.  He would not be found lest someone should trip over him on their way down.

“Are the children asleep?” He heard his father ask. His mother, Cecily, must have nodded, for his father continued.

“Good. I wish not to worry them.”

“Then worry them not! Stay here, Richard!” Cecily appealed to her husband. The younger Richard almost laughed. He had learned long ago that telling his father not to do something would only spur him on all the more. He was like George, that way, Richard thought. Always so stubborn. But still, he was his father and Richard was thrilled that his father was such a brave warrior. Why wasn’t Mama proud?

“It shall be an easy battle, my love. I shall be home and back to you and the children before the week is out.” Richard, duke of York promised. Although Richard could not see her from his spot on the stairs, he knew his mother would remain unconvinced. “And besides,” his father continued. “Edmund shall be with me. And Edward is not far, only in Wales. He shall return soon too, and your nest shall once more be full, my love.”

“I do wish you would stop taking my sons into battle.” Cecily said somewhat bitterly, but her husband noted her tone and realised quickly that she was jesting.

“Your sons are fierce warriors, wife. They have inherited all their skill from their father.” York said with a grin. Richard remained on the stairs, listening to his parents conversation. It was not often that he was able to observe them like this, and he noted how much they were dragged down by protocol and what was, as his mother so often put it, ‘proper’. The duke of York could never speak to his wife so honestly and so openly in public.

“You shall inflate your own ego so much that it shall drag you down into the dirt!” Cecily said with a laugh. “Now! To bed with you! You are to be up early in the morning and if you must go into this battle I would have you do it with your wits about you, not half-asleep!” She commanded.

Young Richard stood immediately and clambered somewhat quietly up the remaining stairs and into his bedchamber. He shut the door softly and jumped nimbly under his covers.

“Do you think he realised that we knew he was there?” The Duke asked his wife in a whisper once he had heard the soft thump of a door on the second floor of the castle. Cecily shook her head.

“He had no idea. God bless him.”

************

 

Richard woke early to the sound of hooves in the courtyard. The household seemed to be ablaze and as he descended the stairs he saw his father being dressed in his armour. It was spectacular, bright enough to blind and strong enough, he was sure, that his father could endure a thousand arrows and come out unscathed. The Duke of York smiled at his youngest son warmly.

“Richard! Come and bid your father a good day!” He said. He knelt down to his son’s height - no small feat in the armour he currently wore - and looked his son in the eye. Grey blue met dark brown and the Duke ruffled the boys hair lightly.

“When can I join you in battle like Edward and Edmund, father?” Richard asked. His father grinned.

“Oh, when you are old enough! There will be no shortage of battles for you, my son!”

“And can I have my own sword? And my own horse?” Richard asked with all the hopefulness and innocence of a small child. The Duke of York felt his heart warm in his chest. That his son could possess such innocence in such a time of warfare was beyond him.

“Aye son. You can have all the horses you want, and we’ll even get you a magnificent sword.”

“Better than Edward’s?” Richard asked, recalling his brother’s silver sword that glittered with gems at the hilt.

“Oh yes, much better than Edward’s. But don’t tell him, mind.” The Duke whispered. Richard grinned.

“Good luck, father!” He called as his father walked out into the courtyard.

“I don’t need luck, lad!” He said with a wink.

He said his goodbyes to his daughters and his other son George, and finally to his wife. He kissed her softly before mounting his horse. Cecily moved to Edmund, her second son, and fretted over his armour for no shortage of moments. Edmund laughed, rolled his eyes and said his own goodbyes to his family.

“I shall be back soon, Mama. And Dickon,” He said, pausing before Richard. “Don’t forget to keep George in check!” He said with a wink.

George stuck his tongue out at his older brother, before being chastised by his mother. Richard disguised a laugh with a cough and waved as his father and brother rode off into battle.

************

 

Edmund was seventeen, yet feared little the coming battle. He stood beside his father, surveyed the battle ground. The terrain was easy and Edmund was confident of their victory.

“Edward shall be jealous he missed this.” He said with a grin to his father. The Duke of York laughed a little at his son’s eagerness for battle and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Aye lad, your brother shall envy us this victory!”

He had never felt more prepared in his life. His father had promised him victory, and not once did it occur to Edmund to doubt his father’s word.

************

 

Edmund stood on the battlefield, his sword bloodied and his armour muddied. He was sure he had a few broken bones and he was certain of a large number of flesh wounds. He had torn a muscle in his knee and had received a stab wound to the arm. And yet, he continued to fight with such vigour that one would be forgiven for believing him to be injury free.  
The broken bodies of the enemy forces littered around him, and he noted with a grim sort of satisfaction that the soldiers of the opposite side were already giving him a wide berth.  
Edmund was secure in the belief that he was winning himself a victory, when he spied his tutor and friend, Robert Apsall.

Rob was in no better state than Edmund himself, although it looked like he had taken more injuries. Edmund froze upon noticing Rob’s expression.

“Edmund, they have your father.” He said gravely. Edmund sighed.

“What do they want? Money? A ransom?” He asked. He had sheathed his sword and was walking to the edge of the battlefield.

“No, Ed. Your father is dead.” Rob said. His eyes were grave but his tone was urgent. Edmund was in disbelief. His father, the duke of York, killed? It could not be!

“Are you sure?” He asked. Rob nodded.

“Edmund, you must leave. Seek safety; they will be coming for you now.”

“I cannot leave our men! We shall lose!” Edmund said stubbornly. Rob had to shake his shoulders to get some sense into the boy.

“Don’t you see lad? We’ve already lost!” He said sharply. Finally feeling the loss of his father, Edmund nodded numbly

“Then… then we shall go. We shall leave, quickly.” He said.  
Rob nodded and lead the way.

************

 

They had gone quite a distance. The sounds of battle were long behind them, and both Edmund and Rob had begun to believe they were quite out of harms way.  
Yet Rob had slowed his pace, and Edmund, wondering why, turned back to his companion.

“Rob, what gives you pause?” He asked.  
Rob nodded his head in the direction of the trees up ahead, and Edmund saw to his horror silhouettes concealed behind the branches. He glanced the glint of swords, the shine of armour.

“By God, it appears we have come across the Earl of Rutland!” A voice said, emerging from the woods. Edmund recognised him as Lord Clifford - one of the very men he had spent the morning fighting against.

“Edmund, is it not?” Clifford continued. Edmund nodded stiffly, his hand positioned firmly on the hilt of his sword. “Your father is dead, boy.” Clifford said with a sadistic sort of smile and a cruel, mocking smirk.  
Edmund took a deep, shaky breath and forced himself to remain composed. He stayed silent.

Before either he or Rob had a chance to unsheathe their swords, they had been set upon by Clifford’s men; their hands were bound so swiftly that neither of them had any chance to resist. They were forced to their knees and disarmed as Clifford stood menacingly overhead.

“You will be seeing your father soon enough, boy.” Clifford said to Edmund. Beside him, Rob was openly appalled.

“You cannot mean to harm the boy. He is the Earl of Rutland!”

“And Richard was the Duke of York, and yet he lies cold and stiff on a bloody battlefield.” Clifford said with a cruel laugh. Rob struggled against his restraints until he needed to be contained by two of Clifford’s men.

“He is seventeen.” Rob said quietly, fiercely. “He is fleeing the battle. There is no honour in this!” He snarled.

Clifford looked coldly at Rob and unsheathed a silver dagger.

“York was responsible for the death of my father. It would give me no greater pleasure than to be the bearer of death for his son.”

Edmund was cold. He tried his hardest not to shiver from the December chill, but his cold armour was pushing the ice down into his very bones. He could hardly bend his fingers, and even if his hands had been unbound, he doubted he would be able to defend himself. The thrill of the fight had long since left him and with it, all of his willpower to continue fighting.

“Jesus, the boy can’t defend himself!” Rob protested harshly.

Clifford paid no heed. Edmund looked Clifford straight in the eyes. Despite his wounds that were beginning now to give him great pain, despite the aching in all of his limbs and the cold worming its way into his veins and seeming to freeze his blood, Edmund was determined not to die a coward.

He felt the dagger enter his chest. He felt strange comfort in the warmth of the blood that was pooling around his ribs, and glanced over to Rob.  
Rob was staring in horror; the son of the heir to the throne of England, murdered in cold blood on the outskirts of the battlefield and denied the chance to defend himself.  
The cold seemed to be numbing his pain, and as Edmund felt the last few strands of life he had left leaving him, he forced himself to remember the faces of his mother and his younger siblings. Little Richard and George; his sisters, Margaret and Anne and Elizabeth... 

And, of course, Edward. Oh, how Edward would berate him now! They had always been incredibly close. It was more than mere blood that bound Edmund and Edward; it was sheer loyalty and love. There was no one Edmund cared for more than his brother.  
Edward had always been better at combat than Edmund had, and oh, how he wished his brother were here with him now. Edward would have stopped this, Edward would have instructed him and... he would have saved him.   
He felt almost nothing as life left him, and with every ounce of strength he had left, he managed to glance over to Rob and give him a small, thankful smile.

“Coward.” Rob spat. Clifford waved a hand at the men restricting Rob.

Lifting him to his feet they carried him away. His last glance of Edmund was of Clifford’s men lifting his limp body and carrying it away towards the city.

“Do not fret Rob!” Clifford called. “You shall see Edmund again. Do not forget to look up to the gates of York ere you next enter the city!” He shouted with a laugh.

Rob fainted.

************

 

Edward was frozen. He stood before the city gates, looking up at the dismembered heads of his beloved father and his even more beloved brother.

Edward and Edmund had always been close. They were born less than one year apart.  
All of Edward’s childhood memories included Edmund in one way or another.  
Edward would always be the one to get the pair of them into trouble, but he never fretted, for he knew that Edmund would come up with a way to get them out. Edmund was the sensible one. The dependable one. The one that Edward had never doubted would be there, and now he noticed his brother’s absence with startling clarity. The air next to him felt empty; the space where Edmund would have ridden his horse beside him was cold and desolate and Edward was struggling to tear his eyes away from his brother’s face.

Beside Edmund, was the head of their father. No more ceremoniously shoved onto a spike than Edmund had been, the Duke of York was displayed on the gates to his city. Someone had made a crown crudely out of paper and placed it upon his father’s head. Edward, in his grief, was angered more by this act of disrespect than the death of his father itself.

He remained standing before the gates for some time, staring blankly upwards.

“Why, Edmund?” He whispered. “Why did you run? Jesus, why did you only take Rob with you? Good lord, if you had only have had some of your men with you…”  
He looked into his brother’s face, willing it to answer and yet knowing it would not.  
He was about to speak again when he felt a pressure at his side. A small tug on his sleeve made him look down, and he saw Richard, eight year old Richard, looking up to him with dark eyes the very same as those of his father.

“Don’t look, Dickon.” Edward said softly. The boy before him sniffed.

“Why would they, Ned? Why…” Richard trailed off. His eyes found themselves landing on the heads of his father and brother, and he felt the air leave his lungs. Edward saw how grieved the boy was, and so put aside his own grief for the moment. He knelt down to Richard’s level and placed his hands on Richard’s shoulders.

“War can be harsh.” Edward said simply. He gently wiped the tears that had begun to fall from Richard’s eyes.

“But I overhead Mama… she said Edmund was no longer fighting… she said they tied his hands and took his weapons.”

At this, Edward himself had to fight back his own tears. Richard was clever and perpetually curious. It was a dangerous combination in a child.

“You should not have been eavesdropping, Dickon.” Edward said with a raised eyebrow. Richard shrugged. Edward furrowed his eyebrows and looked at his younger brother with all the sympathy he could muster.

“We shall have to stick together now, do you hear?” He said softly. Richard nodded.

“What shall we do Ned? Without father?” Richard said, biting his lip. He was too young to worry about such things, about money and property, and yet worry he did. Edward was touched.

“As I said, we shall have to stick together. I shall be quite lost without Edmund by my side.” He said to his brother. Tears began to escape his eyes again, and once more Edward wiped them away.

“Promise you won’t leave too.” Richard said. Edward looked deep into his brothers eyes, and was about to say how he could never promise such a futile and unpredictable thing, but seeing how desperate the child was for reassurance, he nodded.

“I promise, Dickon. And you know what else?” He said with a forced smile. Richard shook his head. “I’m going to take the throne and become King to honour father. I am going to fulfil his wishes, and when I do Dickon, I am going to need you by my side.”

Richard’s eyes brightened at that, at this prospect of hope.

“I will, Ned. I will.” He said earnestly. Edward smiled. He patted his brother on the shoulder and told him to run along. Richard  turned back and retreated from whichever way he had come.

Edward glanced once more up at his father.

“Goodbye father.” He said softly. And then, before turning away, he turned his attention to Edmund.

“Wait for me, brother. I swear I’ll see you again in time.”

 

A/N: The boy in this story is Richard, duke of Gloucester and later Richard III. He never saw the heads of his father and brother on the gates of York, and I don't think Edward did until after he was King and ordered them to be taken down either, but... creative licence! 


	3. The Hollow Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis Lovell visits the plain graveside of his closest friend.

1485

Francis was on his knees in the friary. It was winter, the bitter cold was creeping into his bones. He had travelled to Leicester in all the secrecy he could manage. They would have his head if they found him here.

But he had had to come. 

The cold of the stone floor was murdering his knees, and he began to seriously doubt his ability to walk once he rose.

There wasn't a headstone. No name was carved. There was nothing at all to commemorate him. No candles were lit, no grand statue singing his praises and rewarding his efforts. Nothing like there was in York. Even in death, the city of York adored him and it was there that Francis had sought, and found, refuge. He would often visit the stained window in the Minster, kneeling before that as he knelt before this grave, kneeling as one would at an altar.

He brought white roses, when he could get them, and left them at the grave. A silent, anonymous rebellion against the man that had taken the life of his best friend.

"What ever shall we do, Dickon, without you?" He whispered bitterly. "Nowhere is the same without you." He paused. "I'm not the same without you."

**************

"Ah Francis, give the girl what she wants and have done with it." Richard said with a laugh. He was lounging by the fire, his feet were resting on the large oak table opposite him. His elegant, finely bejewelled hand nursed a silver goblet full of the finest Gascon wine, and he was merrier than Francis had seen him for a long time.

"Easy for you to say," Francis scoffed. "You at least know the woman you are married to. I barely know Anna and she barely knows me!"

William Catesby laughed from his spot on the floor. He was leaning against the wall at the side of his fireplace, one knee extended, the other raised with one arm resting on it. He too held a goblet full of wine, and he tapped his fingers on the side, relishing in the sound of the rings on his fingers hitting the silver.

"All she wants is a bit of attention. Visit her bed every night, bid her good day every morning and send her the occasional jewel." He shrugged. "Simple."

Francis rolled his eyes and Richard roared with laughter.

"Oh how glad I am for my Anne!!" He said with a grin, his blue eyes sparkling. "Hearing you tell of the woes of marriage! How lucky I am for my darling wife!"

Catesby dipped a finger in his wine and flicked the drops at Richard. Francis laughed.

"You dare to throw wine on your Duke?!" Richard asked in mock anger.

"I dare!" Catesby replied. "As long as you smirk and tell of your happy marriage to the woman you love I shall dare!"

Richard laughed again. He looked at the ornate clock on the fireplace.

"Midnight." He said with a smile. "Merry Christmas, boys."

"Merry Christmas, Dickon." Francis said. Catesby downed his wine.

"Aye. Merry Christmas lads."

**************

It was Francis' favourite memory.  
Christmas 1482.

They were all three of them happy. Blissfully happy.

But happiness never lasts, and like the calm before the storm, neither one of them knew what would hit them until after it had already passed, leaving devastation in its wake.

Richard was still the mere Duke of Gloucester back then, and he had refused his brother the king's invitation of a Christmas at court in order to spend the season with his wife and son and his dearest friends.

It was Richard all over. He had no time for the trivialities of court or the protocol of royalty. Besides, he knew how it would end. Edward would be in bed with a drunken whore and his wife Elizabeth would end the festivities in a fit of jealousy.  
Richard adored his brother - and swore blind he would die for him if need be - but could never quite stomach his infidelities. Edward loved his wife - had torn the country apart to marry her instead of the French princess that was intended -  and so Richard was endlessly baffled as to why Edward found company in the arms of common whores on oh so many nights.

He was thankful for his Anne. Sweet, caring Anne. Both Richard and Francis doubted a malicious thought had ever even crossed her mind. Francis doubted he would ever be able to curb his jealousy at Richard for having a wife so loving as Anne.

Francis thought of his Anna. He would never be able to sit by the fire, with her resting on his knees, playing idly with strands of her hair, as Richard often did. He would never be able to bounce their baby son on his knee whilst she placed a loving hand gently on his shoulder.

"There's one blessing," Francis muttered to the stone slabs of the friary floor. "You are with Anne now. Give her my love... God knows I miss hers." He said with a sigh.

**************

It was the winter after her death, and whilst by day Richard could go on being the king (for king he now was), by night he was all but an empty shell.  
Even surrounded by his friends - Francis, Catesby and Richard Ratcliffe - he could not prevent the despair from taking hold and burrowing its way into his soul.

Staring out of the window into the blackness of the night sky, Richard turned to his friends.  
"Methinks..." He began, "I should retire."  
He drained his goblet, and set it on the table with a dull thud.  
His eyes were sunken and shadowed, his hands shaking. His fingers were fumbling in his palms, twisting the ruby ring on his littlest finger. Francis glanced at the jewels on the hands of his closest friend. Bedecked with elegant gold and priceless gems, Richard’s slender fingers were trembling.

Catesby nodded silently, finishing the last of the wine in his own vessel. Ratcliffe did the same, and each of them bade the king a farewell and a good night.  
Francis remained sitting in his chair.

"Should you not be following Ratcliffe making sure he doesn't injure himself?" Richard said humourlessly. "We all know he can't handle his wine."

Francis remained silent, studying the man before him.  
Kingship had taken a toll on Richard. The carefree, jovial young duke had transformed into a man with trembling hands and worry lines etched permanently onto his handsome face. He had never allowed any outside of his innermost circle to bear witness to his emotional turmoil, and as far as the rest of the court was aware, King Richard was fine. A little put out after the recent loss of his wife, but fine nonetheless.

Francis knew differently. He knew the empty hallways haunted Richard, and he knew that most nights he sat by the fire in an armchair when everybody else had left instead of retiring to bed. He couldn't face those empty sheets, the empty space beside him where she used to lie.

"You should go." Richard said darkly.

"I do not think it wise, Dickon." Francis said gently. Richard turned to glare at his oldest friend.

"I did not ask for what you think wise, Lovell." He said, his tone a warning. "Go."

Francis wanted to reply, to protest, but he knew that in the end it would be futile. How could he refuse his king? Bloody hell, how could he refuse Richard? All the man had to do was say jump and Francis would ask how high.

So Francis merely nodded, and before saying another word, exited the room silently.  
When the door had closed, he paused outside for a moment. He could hear beyond the door the sounds of broken sobs tearing apart the chest of a desperate man.

Richard remained behind closed doors, his hands clutching his temples in frustration, in desperation. The sobs came frantically, too fast for his heart to keep up. He had fallen to his knees in despair, his eyes closed tight against the images in his head. But no matter what he did he saw her. He saw her lying before him on her sickbed, pleading with him to leave, to not risk his own health. He saw her taking her last breath, the auburn hair that he had once adored so much falling across her pale, lifeless face. Her slender body was limp beneath the sheets, and no matter how much he held her, no matter how much he gripped her hands, no matter how many times he pressed kisses to her lips, she was never coming back.  
She was gone, and he was a king with no heir, and no wife.  
His throne was under threat from invasion and he had lost his only stronghold. Anne was his fortress, his retreat, his escape and his reason for fighting. He had vowed that he would keep hold of his crown for his Anne, because he would not allow her to be persecuted under the rule of Henry Tudor should he fail.

Now she was gone. Richard vowed instead that he would fight for his crown, but if he died in battle, it would no longer be the worst thing that could happen.

**************

It had all started one summer when Francis was a child. His father had taken him to the castle on the hill and had introduced him to the Lord Warwick. Francis had looked around in awe, stunned by the large castle walls, by the hustle and bustle of the courtyard. His father had shooed him along, bidding him to explore, to make friends.

But Francis had never been any good at making friends. He had been an awkward little child; with no siblings and hardly any interaction with people his own age, he was more comfortable around adults than ten year olds.  
He obeyed his father's orders nonetheless, and scurried out into the fray. He ducked under a milkmaid carrying a vat of milk to the kitchens, he skirted out of the way of the horse master leading three stallions to the stables. He narrowly avoided running headfirst into the Lord Warwick's daughter Isabel (who gave him a disdainful glare) and stopped short against the wall, looking for a safe route out of the throng.

"You'll get used to it." A boy said from beside him. The boy had dark hair and bore a smirk on his face. "They don't notice us round here." He said with a little laugh.

Francis smiled.  
"Well I am glad I have found at least one friendly face. My name is Francis. Francis Lovell." He said with an outstretched hand. He had seen his father offer his hand to new acquaintances a hundred times over, and now he adopted the custom as one of his own.

The boy took the hand and shook it with a laugh.  
"I am Richard." He said simply. Francis raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

"No last name?" He said. Richard smiled.

"I have one. But I don't think you'll like it." He said with a simple shrug. "Nobody acts the same around me once they hear it."

"I'm not like everybody else. I promise I won't." Francis said with a smile. Richard shrugged once more.

"Okay." He said. "Plantagenet. I am a Plantagenet."

Francis thought he was joking. Plantagenet? The name of the royal family? Surely not! But then he saw Richard's eyes. The childlike vulnerability behind those pale blue irises revealed Richard's fear, the anxiety that yet another friend would change once they discovered his heritage.

Francis saw a lonely boy, tired of protocol and being called 'your grace'. All Richard wanted was a true friend, not just another child ordered to befriend him by grasping parents wishing to get ahead in the world. Not yet another friend that tip-toed around him.  
And so Francis ignored the fact that Richard was the brother of the king, and he shrugged.

"Okay." He said with a smile. Richard returned the smile, his relief evident that he had finally found a friend uninterested in his high status.

**************

"I bet you're causing all sorts of mischief up there, Dickon." Francis said sadly. He looked up at the ceiling, seeing beyond it and imagining the sky up above. He imagined Heaven, and he hoped fervently that Richard was looking down, that he was listening.

"York rebelled, you know. Refused to accept Tudor as king." He said with a small laugh. "But of course you know that. I bet you know everything." He said quietly. "You always did know everything."

The darkness was growing deeper, and the solitary candle Francis had lit was beginning to flicker and wane.  
He was kneeling by an unmarked, uniform floor slab. Not a soul would know that a king was buried underneath. Francis had had to bribe the friar with one of his last few coins just to find out himself.  
Richard had been flung unceremoniously into this hastily dug pit. The bastard 'king' hadn't even had the courtesy to carve his name onto the stone.

Francis looked at the candle, and the glass holder it stood in to prevent the wax from dripping to the floor. He tilted his head in wonder. Then he reached out his hand and removed the candle. He handled the glass holder gently, and then he rose and threw it to the floor.  
The shards of glass scattered everywhere, and Francis took a deep breath. He picked up the largest, sharpest shard and inspected it.  
It would do.

He leaned over the floor slab, the glass in his hand. And he began to scratch.  
He etched into the stone the name of his dearest friend.

Richard, Duke of Gloucester  
King of England  
Friend

It was not elaborate, and Francis' hand was shaking. Into his words he had poured his own grief, his own desperation, his willingness and desire for everything to be as it once was.

The shard of glass he had used had cut his hand to ribbons. Droplets of his own blood were falling onto the stone, running in the crevices his words had formed. His blood flowed into the 'R' of Richard, and it felt oddly pagan and ceremonial, that Francis' blood should stain the words on the stone. If only the blood could raise the dead, Francis lamented. If only Richard could be here again.

The open wound stung sharply, but he had felt worse.

The penmanship was uneven and slanted, but it mattered not. Richard had his name.  
Francis had wanted to carve something grand, but then Richard would not want such grandeur. He wanted to be remembered as the benevolent duke of Gloucester, not the besmirched king of England.

Francis only wished he could do the same for Catesby and Ratcliffe. Ratciffe, who had lain dead on the battlefield, who had been cut down fighting for Richard's crown, lay, like the king he had died for, in an unmarked grave. Only his lay in a field somewhere with no hope of discovery.  
And Catesby lay behind the impregnable walls of the Tower of London, his headless body also lying in a shallow grave with no carving of his name. The new Tudor king had had Catesby executed just three days after he had won the throne from Richard. There had been no trial. Catesby had committed no crime, simply fighting for the wrong side.

And now Francis was alone.  
Truly alone.  
All three of his closest friends had died at the hands of Henry Tudor. Francis, who had been a great lord, who had been truly happy, was now penniless, traversing the country on the run, living in various inns and hostels, anywhere that would take him. He almost wanted to lament his fall from grace, but then he remembered the king that lay lifeless beneath him and felt rather selfish. Richard had been a great man, and a great king, and yet here he lay.  
The injustice alone brought tears to Francis' eyes.

He thought about Tudor, sitting on his throne in a warm room somewhere in the south of England. He thought about how the crown that encircled his forehead had once sat atop Richard's, and how it had been plucked from Richard on the battlefield, whilst he lay dead at Tudor's feet.

And now Tudor spread vile lies about the man that had been Richard the third. That he had intended to marry his niece, that he had murdered his nephews and was born with a misshapen arm and a full set of teeth after two years in his mother's womb.  
He was making Richard a monster, and there was not a single damned thing Francis could do about it.

All he could do was sit in the friary and bring white roses, hoping to God that someday, somehow, no matter how far off it may be, Richard's name would be remembered. Remembered not as the hunchback Tudor said he was, but the kind-hearted man with the gentle smile that was never destined to die so young.

**************

A/N - You might know Richard III as the evil, grasping, hunchbacked uncle that stole the throne from his nephew and then locked him in the Tower and murdered him. I don't think its true. The injustice of what has been done to Richard's memory brings tears to my eyes, but maybe that's just me. The most beautiful part about the true story is that three years ago Richard's body was found, and he now lies in Leicester Cathedral, with a proper memorial and a proper carving of his name, with a visitors centre dedicated to rehabilitating his image just across the way.


	4. The Crooked White Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard, duke of Gloucester returns home to his wife after a campaign in France tired and vulnerable.

Autumn 1475

Richard was tired. It had been a long, tedious journey home from France, and he couldn’t help but feel that the whole thing had been nothing but a waste of his time.  
He was angry, certainly, but tried to push away his distaste and think of brighter things, such as the wife and young baby waiting for him at home. It had been months since he had seen them, and although he had written to his wife frequently, he sorely missed the sound of her voice.

Anne had begged him not to go, to sit this one out. She had pleaded with him, but Richard had shook his head and told her that he would always follow his brother into battle.  
He scoffed beneath his riding helmet. The invasion of France had been a farce. Edward had backed out of battle at the earliest opportunity and settled for a treaty with the French king instead. Richard was furious. Parliament had raised funds for battle, and his brother wanted to sign a treaty and waste the battle funds on wine only a month after the war was waged?  
The French were threatened, they knew the English would win if it came to a pitched battle, so why did Edward retreat? Several thoughts - most of them insults - ran through Richard’s mind. Edward might be his brother, and he might be the king, but it didn’t stop him being bloody infuriating.

As the long country road wore on, Richard began to recognise landmarks. The hill to his left, or the dip in the road up ahead signalled that he was back in the familiar North, and he was glad to be home. Anne would be waiting up at the castle, and he would wake in the morning in the comfort of his own bed, kept warm by the body of his wife lying beside him. It was far better than the cold bed in a foreign land he had endured in solitude since July.

Most of his men had certainly not passed the months in solitude. Edward included had found comfort in the local prostitutes. His brother had laughed heartily when Richard declined a young woman’s offer, declaring that his younger brother was ‘altogether too chivalrous’ whilst taking the hand of another young lady himself. Richard had raised an eyebrow and turned back to his wine, thinking of Edward’s own wife Elizabeth, and how she was sure to disapprove.

Turning back to the Yorkshire countryside, he finally caught sight of home. The castle in the distance called to him and a smile graced his features at last.

Middleham was beautiful in the autumn. The windows were lit with the gentle glow of a dozen candles, and the lawns had been meticulously pruned to prepare for his arrival.  
Taking a deep breath of the country air, he called his horse to a halt in the courtyard.  
He had barely dismounted when a slender figure came rushing towards him, throwing herself into his arms.

“Oh Richard! I was beginning to worry, you were supposed to be home before nightfall and… and…” She motioned to the darkening sky. “There are all sorts of bandits and criminals on the roads at night and oh, I was so worried!” She said without taking a breath. Richard let out a small laugh.

“Anne, Anne,” He said, placing his hands on her shoulders and steadying her. “I am here, aren’t I? Did I not promise I would come back to you?” He gazed into her dark eyes, and she blinked slowly before nodding.

“Yes, I suppose you did.” She sighed. “But anything could have happened! You could have been robbed, or attacked, or killed!!” She said frantically. “After all Richard, you are the king’s brother!” She added in a whisper.

Richard matched her tone with a smile on his face, and replied - also in a whisper -, “Anne, everyone knows I am the brother of the king. Why are we whispering?” He teased.

She paused for a moment before giving a small laugh and rolling her eyes at him. She took his arm and linked it through her own. He placed his hand on top of hers and allowed himself to be led inside.  
He hadn’t even had the chance to take off his armour yet.

************

Anne had dismissed their servants as soon as a hot bath had been prepared for her husband. He sank gratefully into the embrace of the water, allowing the heat to soothe his aching limbs. His back was giving him more pain than usual; he had spent too much time leaning over the reigns of a horse.  
Anne seemed to read his mind. Before his thoughts had even finished forming, her eyes were straying to his shoulders.

“Does it hurt?” She asked. He could have lied. He could have told her that the bend in his spine and the uneven angle of his shoulders did not hurt even a little, but she knew him too well to believe his tales, and he respected her too much to try and fool her.

He said nothing, only nodded.

“You pushed yourself too hard when you were in France. Edward should never have-” She began. Richard cut her off.

“Edward…" He began angrily. "Edward does what he has to do.” He finished with a sigh. His fingers splashed in the water, and he looked at the droplets, considering his brother.

“Edward does what he wants to do.” He corrected.

Anne moved from her place on the window seat and knelt by the copper bathtub by the fire.

“What is troubling you, Richard?” She asked softly.

He did not wish to burden her with his unease at the treaty, especially when he knew that the treaty and promise of peace was nothing less than a God send for Anne. She always worried herself into a frenzy when he was away on campaign.

“My brother’s actions sit uncomfortably with me is all.” He said with a small shrug.

Anne folded her arms on the edge of the tub and leaned her head on them, gazing into the water. Silence fell between them for a moment, and Richard found it comfortable. He felt no need to fill the silence with meaningless babble, and he found solace in Anne’s mere presence. He marvelled at how she was able to melt away his anger and his discontent without saying a word. Without even knowing the details of Richard's disaffection with his brother, Anne was able to calm his temper.

He leaned his head back against the rim of the tub, but a twinge in his back prevented the position from being comfortable.

Anne raised her head and saw the brief flicker of pain on her husband’s face. She stood and moved until she was behind his head. She knelt down again, and gently touched his shoulder. Richard allowed his eyes to slowly close. Anne massaged his shoulder with her delicate fingers, carefully undoing all the knots in his twisted spine, placing pressure in all of the right places.  
This, she knew, was when her husband was at his most vulnerable. He flinched a little when she first touched his oddly shapen back, but he allowed her to continue.  
Her hands were tender on the skin at the nape of his neck, and as the water began to cool she pressed a single kiss to his raised shoulder.

She stood silently, and paused at the door whilst Richard rose from the bathtub and began to dress in the clean clothes she had laid out for him.

“I am glad you’re home.” She said with a gentle smile as he pulled a white cotton shirt over his head, concealing the deformity of his spine.

“So am I, Anne.” He replied. “So am I.”

A/N - Richard, duke of Gloucester (later Richard III after 1483) was reported by Shakespeare to have had a hunchback and a withered arm. DNA tests prove that this was mostly myth, but he did have a severe case of scoliosis which raised one shoulder slightly above the other and gave him a 65 - 85 degree bend in his spine. It would have been unnoticeable under clothing or armour, but it meant that sitting for long periods in the saddle or fighting in battles would have been uncomfortable. However, it did not affect his fighting skill and he was still described as the 'most handsome man in the room after his brother Edward IV'.


	5. Plantagenet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecily Neville learns of the death of her husband and her son Edmund.

1460

The boy's father was dead.  
So was his brother.

Cecily was on her knees, the broken sobs tearing apart her chest and pressing down on her like the weight of a thousand suns. She clutched at the neckline of her gown; it was suffocating her, she couldn't breathe, there was no air, no way to catch her breath... Nothing, nothing was right, everything was turned upside down...

She felt as though her heart was shattering and the shards were piercing her lungs. As if the loss of her husband wasn't terrible enough, but her son... Her Edmund too?

With trembling fingers, she took off her butterfly headdress. She cast it aside, not caring that the priceless silk folds were lying in the dust and mud that soldier's boots had walked in.  
Her slender fingers tugged at her silvery hair, grasped at her skull. Her breath was coming in gasps as she rocked back and forth on the cold stone floor, the iciness of the stone sending tremors through her knees all the way up through her body. She shivered violently.

Her collarbones were red where her nails had scratched her pale skin, where her hands had searched for something to hold on to, something to anchor herself to.

She grasped at the golden necklace around her neck, holding it tightly and pulling on it until it snapped. It had been a gift from her husband.

Now he was dead.

The boy watched from the darkness of the corridor. The door had been left ajar, and before the tall, lean figure that he recognised as that of his brother, he bore witness to his mother's grief.  
Cecily had never before shown such emotion, but upon the news of her widowhood, she had opened the floodgates and now found herself unable to stop or control the waves of despair that consumed her and left her shaking on her knees.

The boy's eldest brother kneeled before his mother, taking her into an embrace. Cecily clinged to him, her hands around his neck gripping the armour he still wore. Her sobs had turned to cries; desperate, heartbreaking cries.

"They will be avenged." Edward muttered. Cecily nodded, silencing herself.

The boy moved forward slightly. The floorboard beneath him creaked. Edward's head turned.

"Richard?" He asked. He had not expected his youngest brother to be awake at this hour. It was late. It had taken Edward hours to ride from where he had been stationed. He had come as soon as he had heard the news.

"Father? He is... Dead?" The boy stammered.

Cecily once more broke down. Hearing the words from the mouth of her youngest son once more gave the grief a foothold.

"Aye." Edward said grimly. "Yes, Richard. It is true."

"Edmund too?" Richard asked. Edward nodded silently.

Richard felt tears burn in his eyes. He was eight years old, and had no understanding yet of death. All he knew was that men were not to cry. Like Edward, he tried to remain stoic, to grit his teeth and furrow his brow and push his emotions to the back of his mind.  
But he was never to see his father. Not ever again? And Edmund? Never?

Childlike questions cropped up in his mind, but Richard knew this was not the time to ask them. How can they be gone, he longed to ask. How can it be, when they were both so strong? Both such fearless and brave men, how?

Edward saw the boy struggling to fight back tears, and turned away from his mother and faced the boy.

"It's okay, Dickon." He said softly. "I'm going to take the crown. I'm going to avenge our father and brother." He said with a sad smile.

Cecily's head snapped up. Her eyes were fierce and frantic.

"Make them pay, Edward." She said savagely. "Make the bitch that killed your father pay for what they've done to him. Slaughter the bastards that cut down your brother." She said venomously. 

Her tone was like ice, her eyes were ruthless and violent. She wanted the woman who had commanded her husband's brutal death dead. She wanted the woman who had had her husband's head struck off and stuck on a spike to meet the same fate as he had. She wanted the woman behind the death of her second son to suffer. She wanted the men that had struck down her son to die as brutally as Edmund had.

"Don't worry," Edward said darkly. His eyes had become like slits, his mouth downturned in a sharp line. One fist was clenched, the other was gripping the hilt of his sword. When he spoke, his words were like knives. "I will."

Then there was silence.

Edward left, saying nothing. The only sound was the noise of his heavy, armoured shoes hitting the stone floor as he departed and the gentle sniffs of Cecily as she picked herself up of the floor. 

She sent Richard upstairs to gather his things and alert his brother. They were leaving, fleeing the country until  it was safe again. Richard understood then, that this is what it was to be a Plantagenet. It was not nobility and royal blood as his father had told him. It was turmoil and grief and conflict with those you should have called family. The name he bore was heavy, and not with the riches his father had promised. It was heavy with a burden Richard didn't want to bear any longer.

Silence fell once more.

Then there was nothing. Nothing, nothing left to make them stay in the castle they had called their home.

**********

A/N: Okay so Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York was beheaded and his head stuck on a spike over York. His son, Edmund, was killed in cold blood when he was fleeing the battle. Cecily shipped off Richard (later Richard III) and his brother George off to the Low Countries for safety. Edward won the throne months later and became king Edward IV of England.  
The 'she' that killed the Duke is Margaret (or Marguerite) of Anjou (or d'Anjou). She was the wife of King Henry VI. The Duke of York was his cousin and had been proclaimed heir to Henry, disinheriting Margaret's son. Safe to say she was pissed. Her men killed the Duke and after putting his head on a spike, placed a paper crown on top of it to mock his status as the king's heir. One of the first things Edward IV did when he came to the throne was to remove his father and brother's heads from the top of Mickelgate bar.  
Also when Cecily would have learned the news of her husband and son's deaths, Edward was in Wales if memory serves me right and so he most certainly would not have been the one to deliver the bad tidings. This was creative licence on my part.


	6. All These Chips In Me Were Designed For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King Richard III longs for his sick and dying wife, Anne Neville. As the sun is covered by an eclipse, she takes her last breath and sends the king deep into grief.

March, 1485

It should have been spring. By rights the trees should have been starting to grow their leaves, the sun should have been beginning to shine brighter. It should have been warmer.  
And yet Richard still awoke each night shivering to feel the empty, cold space beside him beneath the sheets. Each night he opened his eyes in the small hours, turning to his side hoping to see her fair brown hair and slender figure sleeping softly next to him. Each night he hoped it would be different, that just once she really would be lying there. That just once she would sense him, and awake herself. That just once she would giggle like she used to, and sleepily say, "Stop watching me whilst I sleep Richard. It's rather unsettling."

This night he awoke, but kept his eyes tightly closed. He did not dare to hope.

Eventually he cast aside the silken covers and rose. He lit a candle, and sat by the dying light of the fire. He inhaled deeply, and rested his head in his palms.  He was not used to sleeping alone. Of course, he could send for a local whore and spend the night with her, but even the very idea sat uncomfortably with him. How could he even consider another woman, when he longed so desperately for his wife, for his Anne?

He leaned back in the velvet armchair. His arm was raised, his elbow resting on the armrest. His forehead, creasing with worry, rested in his palm. His eyes were closed. He was wishing he could sleep. He was wishing for peace, for Anne, and for solutions to the problems that plagued him and disturbed his slumber.

He sat until after the sun rose, and the inevitable knock at his door sounded not long after six o'clock.

"Enter." He said quietly. A young boy pushed open the heavy oak door and peeped his head around the frame.

"Your highness, do you desire breakfast? Or would you rather a late start today?" He asked, attempting - and failing - to mask the pity in his eyes. Richard hated that, their pity. He wanted it not.

"No. Prepare me a bath. There is no use in a late start, I cannot possibly sleep."

The squire nodded. He left the room silently, hurrying down the corridors to carry out the king's orders.

The moment he had gone, Richard rose from his chair and dressed himself quickly. He abhorred the insistence of the squires to help him dress. He had managed for thirty-one years before he had became king and assumed the throne. He was pretty damn sure he was able to dress himself.

***********

"They're trying to help." Anne had said when he spoke to her of it in the past.

"I know," Richard had replied. "But it's so bloody infuriating! Can I not button a doublet? Are my hands old and withered?!"

She had shook her head with a smile.

"It is to save your hands from performing menial tasks. After all, they are royal hands. They have more... important... duties to perform." She said gently. 

She took one of his palms in her own. His were rough, with ink stains from signing papers and lingering scars from battles long past. Hers were soft and gentle. Her fingers stroked the life line in the centre of his palm. She traced it from the bottom of his fingers to his wrist, and when she was finished, she turned over his palm and straightened the rings on his fingers that he had twisted. He twisted his rings - particularly the one on his littlest finger - when he was nervous, when he was angry, when he was bored...  
The ruby on his little finger was facing to the right. Anne turned it. Richard laughed.

"What on this earth would I do without you?" He asked. She shrugged.

"You'd get along." She said nonchalantly. "Although..." She began. "You wouldn't look nearly as presentable." She continued mischievously. She straightened his collar as he laughed. He wrapped his arms around her waist.

"Aye, that is true." He admitted. She untangled herself from his arms, and left to sit on the grand four poster bed.

"Will your highness be joining me this evening?" She asked with a smile. Richard grinned.

"Of course, my love."

***********

"He's an idiot." Francis said by Richard's side.  
It was dark, and Richard sat deep in conversation with his closest friends and advisors - Francis Lovell, Richard Ratcliffe and William Catesby.

"Hastings is a traitor." Catesby said bluntly. "Not an idiot, Francis."

Francis' eyes burned.

"I didn't mean he isn't a traitor. I'm not defending the man." He said sharply. Richard sighed.

"The pair of you stop your bickering. You are starting to sound like an old married couple, for Christ's sake."

 His head was in his hands, as it usually was when he was stressed or concerned. Catesby had informed him that Hastings, a man whom Richard had known since childhood, a man whom had been so loyal to his family, had been conspiring against him. Richard was still new to the throne. He could not afford to allow traitors to live.

"You know what you have to do, Richard." Ratcliffe spoke up from the corner. Richard shook his head.

"I know." He replied grimly.

***********

The next morning, Hastings was dragged from a council meeting and executed immediately. No trial. No nothing.  
Richard was exhausted.

"What on earth did you think you were doing?!" Anne said angrily in his chambers. She had been waiting for him, and when he entered she immediately began calling him out on his mistakes. "Without a trial?!"  
She had fire in her eyes and venom in her tone. She was furious.

"I had to, Anne." Richard said wearily. "The man would have deposed me. Deposed us."

"Maybe that wouldn't be such a terrible thing." She said bitterly. Anne had never wanted to be queen. She was happy when it was Richard's brother on the throne, when they lived on their estate in Yorkshire with their own son and Richard's two bastard children.

Richard took her by the shoulders and looked her deep in the eyes.

"No." He said bluntly. "They would not allow me to live. I would be executed, and you... you would either be sent to a nunnery or married off to someone else or poisoned in secret in the Tower." He looked into her brown irises, wordlessly begging her to understand. "I did this to protect us. To protect you."

She sniffed. She knew arguing further would achieve nothing.

"I need you with me on this, Anne." Richard begged.

She sighed heavily before nodding silently.

"Where else would I be, if not with you?" She replied.

He breathed in relief, kissing the top of her forehead.

"Anne?" He asked as she turned to leave. She paused and turned. "You know I love you, don't you?"

"Yes, Richard." She said softly. Her anger appeared to have melted. "I love you too, my love."

He nodded, watching her leave. 

***********

Richard abruptly stopped himself from reliving the memories of the recent past. It was no use. Half the people in them were dead anyway.

The squire returned.

"Your bath is ready, sire." He said with a bow of the head. Richard thanked the boy.

He went for his bath, allowing the hot water to soothe the pain in his back. He had developed the problem in his teenage years. His spine had begun to curve, and now it bent sharply to the right. Anne had never minded.

"Is it hurting again?" She would ask. Richard would try to ignore it, to say it wasn't that bad, but she always knew. She would have the large copper bathtub brought to their bedroom before he was king or to his chambers after he was. She would have it filled with scalding hot water, because that was exactly how Richard liked it. She would stay whilst he lay there, kneeling by the side of the tub. She would occasionally dip her fingers in the water, admiring the ripples she made.  
If she was in an exceptionally good mood, she would flick the droplets at her husband. Richard recalled with a smile one particular time when he had kneeled in the tub, taken her by the waist and pulled her - fully clothed - into the water with him. They had both collapsed in laughter, especially when the squires entered to take away the bath and saw their king and queen acting like children in the water.

Richard leaned back against the copper. Anne was not here now. He longed for her presence, and vowed that later today he would go to her and demand that the doctors allow him to see her. Contagious or not, Richard thought, I will see my wife. 

***********

"Your highness, perhaps it is best for only a brief visit." The doctor, William Hobbys, advised. Richard sighed stubbornly.

"I shall stay as long as I wish." He said bluntly. Hobbys dare not argue. Richard might be a fair King, but he did not allow himself to be crossed.

Hobbys nodded and opened the door to allow the king inside. Hobbys motioned to the maidservants, instructing them to leave.

"There is nothing more we can do, sire." Hobbys said tentatively. Richard nodded stiffly, kneeling by his wife's bed. "It is consumption... she... ah... may not have long." He said softly. Richard breathed in deeply, swallowed, and nodded. He had expected nothing else. Anne had been deteriorating for months.

She was lay in the large four-poster bed. Her limp frame was propped up by at least a dozen cushions and pillows, and the thick blankets used to keep her warm almost buried her beneath their weight.  
The image of her stabbed at Richard's gut. He brushed a stray dark hair from her forehead, and almost recoiled at the temperature of her. She was running a fever, and a bloody high one at that. He was going to send for the doctor, but he knew they would say any effort would be pointless. Instead, he pulled out a kerchief from his own doublet and dipped it into the jug of water lying by her bed. He dabbed it on her forehead, and her eyelids fluttered.

"Richard," She muttered. He smiled weakly as her eyes opened fully. "You're here. The doctors... they let you in."

"A whole army couldn't stop me." He whispered. She attempted a smile, but was struck with violent coughs. Her whole chest vibrated, and her hand, encased in Richard's palm, gripped him tighter whilst the coughing fit endured. Richard attempted to mask his worry, but succumbed to panic when his wife raised a handkerchief to her mouth during a cough and when she brought it away, it was spattered with blood.

She saw his concern, and shook her head.

"I'll be fine." She insisted. Richard said nothing.

"Anne," He said softly after what felt like an eternity. "Don't leave me." He said almost inaudibly. Tears were burning in his eyes.

Anne smiled.

"I won't." She said. Richard choked on a small laugh. He sniffed. "Not if I can help it, at least." She added. Richard smiled sadly.

"I need you."

"No you don't." She said. It was her turn to attempt a laugh. "You will be the most fair king this land has ever seen. You don't need me. You can do brilliantly all on your own."

"I can't rule without you." Richard insisted.

Anne tried to scoff, but, again, it caught in her throat and turned into spasms of coughs.

"I can't laugh with anyone but you. I can't be me with anyone but you." He said. Anne was silent. "I need you." He said again, begging her to understand, as if his words alone could save her.

"I love you." She said. Richard gripped her hand tighter, hoping to anchor her to this world. Her eyes had grown dull.

"Anne, no," He began. "Please," he said, more desperately now. "I beg you. Don't... don't. I am... I am nothing without you."

He was surprised she was not crying out in pain, he was amazed that his grip was not breaking the bones in her hand. He was holding her so tightly, praying so fervently that he could heal her.

Then suddenly the room grew dark. The sun outside had gone out. It was covered, as though God had thrown a blanket over it. Richard panicked. What in the hell?  
He turned to Anne for her to reassure him that the phenomenon was real, that he wasn't going mad, but when he turned, he saw her limp arm over the bed covers and her parted lips as she took her last breath.

He clenched his fists as the sun emerged again. The tears rolled freely down his cheeks.

"Sire, the sun..." Hobbys said, bursting into the room. He stopped short when he saw the scene before him. The queen, her eyes closed and her chest unmoving, and the king, deep in the throes of grief, begging her to come back to him.

Hobbys turned and gently closed the door on the cries of the king. Even with the door closed, the doctor could hear from outside the heart wrenching sobs and the repetitions of a desperate, broken man that had lost the last thing in the world that meant anything to him.

"I am nothing, Anne. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing."

***********

A/N - Richard III loved Anne Neville dearly. There was a solar eclipse at the moment she died, and it was said to be a sign from God.  Without Anne, Richard really was nothing. His son and heir had died not too long before, and without a wife he had no hope of having another heir. The throne remained perilously insecure and it simply didn't look good after Anne's death. He was facing invasion from Henry Tudor, and just six months after her death he died in battle and lost the crown.  
(Title from the song Just Past The Point of Breaking by Fatherson.)


	7. A Tudor Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth of York never wanted to marry Henry Tudor. As time wears on, the pair come to feel genuine affection for one another, even - dare one say - love.

August 1485

The King was dead.

My father had always told me that war could be a dangerous sport, but that my uncle would always return home, because Dickon was the best fighter there was. When he was just eighteen he led my father’s army in the beginnings of an illustrious military career.

My father had always humoured me when I asked about battles. My mother frowned and said it was not my place to learn the art of warfare. My place was to sit pretty with some embroidery and one day I’d be married off to a foreign prince and be a queen like her. My father rolled his eyes behind her back, and when I was small he would pull me up onto his lap and tell me about how, before he won his crown, three suns shone in the sky on the eve of battle.

But I was no longer small enough to crawl into my father’s lap. And besides, he was dead. Just like Uncle Dickon.

I always thought kings impervious to harm, but after living through first the death of my father and now the death of my uncle, it seems that they are far from it. Indeed, it seems that Death simply bides his time with them, waiting until the most inopportune moment before striking his blow.

**************

 

October 1485

“Elizabeth… Elizabeth come here to me. I have news.”

My mother was a strong woman. Only twice in my life have I seen her cry, and whilst I didn’t expect my uncle’s death to grieve her - she and Dickon hardly got on. Indeed, my mother never got on with any of my father’s family - I certainly did not expect her to sit by her fireplace with such an air of smugness.

“Yes mother?” I asked. She held a letter in her lap, and as my eyes landed on it, she tucked it away.

“The new king has been crowned. His mother writes to me.”

I was slightly confused. My mother, who by rights should be at the royal court herself, who once wore the crown and held the sceptre, was all too happy about another king being given the reigns of the kingdom.  
Surely, I thought, a woman who had lost her throne should resent a new king receiving everything that she had lost. Perhaps if my mother had been nicer to my father’s family and friends everything would have been different. Perhaps my brother would sit on the throne of England instead of lying in a shallow grave somewhere unknown.

“He intends to repeal the act that made you illegitimate. You shall be a princess again, Elizabeth!”

Ah, so that’s why she was pleased that somebody else would soon be wearing her crown. She was  to be the wife of a king again. A dead king, but a queen dowager was far better than the king’s whore she had been since the marriage was declared null and void after my father’s death.

I said I have only seen my mother cry twice in my life. The second time was when she received the news that my father was already married when he said his vows to her; that all of her children were not princes and princesses but royal bastards. The first time I saw her cry was at the bedside of my dying father. It seems that my father was the cause of all of her tears, the ones I saw and any I did not.

“I am glad to hear it.” I said. In truth I was not. Of course I would be happy to be treated as a princess again, but to be used once more as a bartering chip? All of my life my father had told me that I was his special girl because I would secure alliances for him in far away lands, depending on who my husband would be. He said that I had a duty, a duty that would separate me from my family and take me to a foreign land. I turned to leave, but she stopped me.

“Elizabeth?”

I turned to face her. Her expression was unreadable.

“Henry Tudor still intends to take you as his bride.” She said. “And his queen.” She added.

Somewhere in her I sensed a twinge of envy. I was to sit on the throne she had inhabited only three years ago. I was to wear the crown that had adorned her head and I was to rule over the court that she had commanded so well. Just like she always said Dickon had usurped the throne from my brother Edward, I would be usurping her, supplanting her. Replacing her.

**************

 

January 1486

I had met my husband-to-be only a few times in the past three months. His visits were always formal, and usually accompanied by his mother. He was cordial enough, but I doubted that I would ever love him like my mother loved my father, or that he should ever love me the way father loved mother. He was a king by right of conquest. His blood claim to the throne was weak at best, and I had no qualms that his marriage to me would serve only as an end to the civil war that had raged in the country for half a century. I was a York princess; England would gladly receive me as their queen. Better the daughter of their beloved King Edward IV than a foreign princess with no understanding of English ways or custom.

The day of my wedding came around quickly, and as my sisters helped me dress for the occasion, I found that I felt nothing. Not fear or anxiety or excitement or happiness; nothing. I felt nothing but the sense of duty my father had told me about. I would marry the man who had killed my uncle in battle if only to settle the country. I felt nothing for Henry Tudor, and I knew that he felt just as little for me.

February 1486

I was home. Restored to my royal status, elevated above the one I held previously. I was no longer a mere princess, I was the queen.

Or rather, I would be queen, once my husband got around to organising my coronation. I was still merely the wife of a king, and I would be lying if I said it did not irk me. Henry cared so little and avoided the subject whenever I raised it. He shrugged his shoulders and said that he had other business to attend to and my coronation would come at a more suitable time.

“He will wait until you bear him a son.” My mother said when I spoke to her of the matter. She grimaced. “He is hardly more than a low-born soldier. He and his mother have the nerve to imply that my daughter is not good enough for a Tudor.” She muttered quietly. I sighed.

“Mother, you cannot say such things.” I said. I did not mention that her status before she married my father was even lower than Henry’s. “He is the King.”

“And you are a Plantagenet, Elizabeth! You have more of a claim to that throne that he, and he has the nerve to delay your crowning!”

I rolled my eyes. Despite my own unease at my lack of ceremony, I could hardly share in my mother’s bitterness. After all, after visiting her I would need to see my husband, and he always seemed to know when I had been with mother, listening to the venomous words she had to say in regards to him. It seemed to bother her little that her words were treason.

“How is your mother?” He asked later that evening.

It was late and most of the court had retired to bed. Henry often asked me to join him in his chambers for a game of cards. We sat close to the fire playing the game by candlelight.

“She is well, your grace.” I said, not raising my eyes from my cards.

“Henry.” He said softly. This was enough for me to tear my gaze away from the cards and to his face. “Call me Henry, since I am your husband.”

I said nothing, only looked down at my lap.

“Yes, Henry.”

He sighed heavily and placed his cards down. The game was clearly over, I could see the hand he had and since he was usually competitive, I knew he would never let me glance his cards whilst the game continued.

“Elizabeth, you are my wife. Won’t you try but a little to endear yourself to me?”

I glanced at him curiously.

“I am trying to be a dutiful wife to you. I try to do whatever it takes to please you.”  
“I do not want that.” He said. He was clearly frustrated, and yet I could not begin to understand why. My mother had always told me that when I was married I must be a good wife. Demure and submissive, obedient to my husband. I would sleep with him whenever he wished, I would join him whenever he told me to. I would read what he told me to and I would listen to whatever music he commissioned.

“I do not wish you to be a woman cowering before her husband. I do not wish for you to merely be a broodmare, there to give me heirs to my throne. I want you to help me rule this country.”

My eyes widened, and he leant across the table and placed his hand on my forearm.

“You have more experience of this country than I. I have spent the majority of my life in France, but you were born here. You have lived here all of your life and have experience of the court, something that I have little of. I shall need your advice, Elizabeth.” He said gently. He spoke in earnest, that much was clear. I was surprised. Never had I been told that a wife would be there to help her husband. Never had it occurred to me that my husband would need me for something other than childbearing.

“Could you do that, Elizabeth? Could you at least try to see me as more than the man that took the throne from your uncle? As more than the man that married you for your Plantagenet blood?”

“Isn’t that the only reason you did marry me?” I asked with an eyebrow raised. He could hardly suggest that he married me for love.

“I…Yes. But I would not like it to remain that way. I would like us to at the very least be friends, Elizabeth. At the very, very least.”

“And at the most?”

“I would like to try to love you Elizabeth, and it would mean a great deal to me if you could try to love me to.” He replied. The candlelight was making shadows on his face, and he was smiling a little, almost as if his statement sounded as ridiculous to him as it did to me. I involuntarily gave a small laugh. And then the laugh grew, and before I knew it I could not stop.

“Whoever would have thought…” I said between bouts of laughter. “That Henry Tudor would wish for our marriage to be more than political alliance and empty vows!” I said. He smiled too, at that. And then my laughter stopped and I said soberly:

“Yes Henry, I think I could try that. I think I would like that.”

**************

 

September 1486

My husband had truly astounded me. I had delivered him the news that I was with child in late April, when I was sure that it was true, and he had become so overjoyed that I hardly recognised him.  
The man I had married in January was quiet and very serious, he had never any time for merrymaking and his visits to my bed were to make heirs, never for pleasure. He was careful with his money, even though the royal coffers were full. He was altogether a rather uninspiring and unremarkable man.

And then I told him that he would have an heir. He changed almost instantly. Great festivities were ordered and he told me at once to sit down and rest my feet. He personally brought over a footstool and lifted my feet up onto it.

“You must rest!” he had said, gently placing his hand on my stomach. “You must look after our boy!”

And now I was nearing my time, I had only a few weeks left and soon I was to go into confinement. Henry was increasingly worried. Whenever I flinched in pain at the kicks the baby gave my abdomen, he would hurry over and place one hand on the small of my back and the other on my growing belly. He would ask if everything was alright in hushed tones and only when I smiled and assured him that it was normal would he take a breath and return to his business.

I had seen my mother endure the pregnancies of all of my siblings and I had been with her when she had given birth to several of them. I knew what to expect, and I knew that she would be there with me when the time came.

The labour was difficult and though I knew it would be painful and exhausting, I was still struck by how much pain I could endure without dying. Several times I thought the pain would be the cause of my death, but the pressure of my mother’s hand on mine reassured me that she had done this no less than eleven times.

“It is a boy, your highness!” The midwife said when the child had been delivered. I sighed in relief. A boy. An heir.

My mother took the child and delivered him into my arms. He had red hair, my red hair. Plantagenet red hair.

The door of my chamber was opened and my husband entered. I was surprised to see him. I had never seen my father visit my mother so soon after she had given birth. Henry dropped to his knees at my bedside, looking at his son.

“We shall call him Arthur.” He said. “If that pleases you, Elizabeth?” He added. I nodded and he smiled. He stroked the boy’s red hair and smiled up at me.

“I would have a moment alone with my wife.” He said to the rest of the room. The midwives gave a small bow and left quickly. My mother was hesitant to leave, but with a nod from me, and a disdainful expression on her face, she too left.

“I thank you Elizabeth. You have given me the greatest gift one can give. You have secured our dynasty.”

I smiled weakly, my eyes closing in exhaustion.

“You should get back to running the country, Henry. I shan’t be much company to you, I fear I shall fall asleep at any moment.” I said in little more than a whisper.  
“I shall stay by your side, my love. The country can wait. After all, the country is safe now; I have a son.”

**************

 

December 1486

My son was a happy, healthy baby. My husband was even happier. Where before he had been anxious about the future, now he was calm. He sat secure on his throne, knowing that there was another behind him should anything befall himself.

Christmas was nearing, and whilst I had been used to lavish festivities when my father was King, I knew my husband would allow us no such privilege. He still guarded his money and was careful with expenses. I never complained though, for I knew he spent his childhood in something not far from poverty. I supposed I had taken advantage of the riches I had at my doorstep, and I vowed that our son should neither live his life in perfect luxury nor painful poverty. I hoped he would inherit his father’s determination, for I had never in my life met a man as focussed as my husband.

It was madness to me that only two Christmases before I had paraded at my uncle’s court, wearing a dress given to me by my aunt Anne. I was wearing her crown now. Sitting in her chair. Dickon's name was like poison to my husband. Only once had I mentioned my uncle, and even then all I said was how he had given me a book as a birthday gift one year. My husband’s countenance had turned to ice and I had vowed never again to mention Dickon.

Henry visited me on Christmas morning, before we were to go down to the chapel and hear mass.

“I have a gift for you.” He said. A pageboy held out a box to me, and I smiled as I lifted the lid. Inside was a beautiful mass of jewels. Rings and earrings, and a few necklaces too, my husband had spared no expense. It meant much to me that even with his fear of emptying the coffers, he had allowed himself to be extravagant at Christmas. He had even brought gifts for my two greyhounds; two beautiful leather collars from Italy.

“Thank you, Henry.” I said, my eyes sparkling. I was beginning to fear that Christmas could never again be how it was when I was a child, but I saw how wrong I was.  
Henry had found some musicians from France and some dancers from Germany and had paid them to perform for us after dinner. He had spared no expense on decoration and the great hall was just as grand as I remembered from my childhood.  
And then there was fireworks. Henry had spared no expense on these either, and as the entire court stood outside watching them light up the sky, I felt Henry’s arm around my shoulders and the weight of Arthur in my arms and I could have sworn that I would never have felt happier in my life.

**************

 

November 1487

Henry had finally set a date for my coronation. At the end of the month I would be officially made his queen. My mother no longer had any reason to dislike my husband; he no longer made me unhappy and he was finally making me his official queen.

Henry began visiting my bed regularly, and I was even surprised to hear that he never took a mistress. Not even when I was pregnant, he remained faithful to me. I laughed in disbelief when I heard; not even my father, who had adored my mother, had been able to remain faithful to her, and I had always simply assumed that it was perfectly alright for a king’s eye to wander whilst his wife was with child. But my husband, my Henry, did not seem to have anything pulling him towards other women, and I was thankful.

I remembered when he had asked me to try to love him, and realised that it no longer felt like I was trying. It was something that came naturally. He smiled when he saw me, and his smile was genuine. Not like in the first weeks of our marriage when his eyes would betray the falseness of the smile on his lips. Now his eyes followed me when I moved, lingered on me when I danced. I felt like a young girl again.  
He allowed me my freedom, allowed me to commission my own artists and musicians. He actively encouraged me to set up colleges at the universities and even presented me with beautifully bound books as gifts. When he needed advice, he came to me for it. He asked about England, how the North reacted with the South, how to best keep the Scottish border in line. He treated me as his equal, not merely his wife.

The crown was placed upon my head, it’s weight more than I anticipated. The holy oil was placed on my chest as the archbishop anointed me. I sat on a grandly ornate throne and looked down at the people gathered before me. I was officially above them, officially Queen of England.

When I saw Henry later that night, he simply took me in his arms.  
“Welcome back, my queen.” He whispered into my ear. I smiled against his shoulder.  
Who ever would have thought that a Yorkist princess could marry a Lancastrian rebel and live to find such happiness?

As our son, one-year old Arthur, toddled into his father’s chambers, his nursemaid running after him and spouting apologies, I laughed heartily and remembered a time when I thought I should never find happiness again. Oh, how woefully wrong I was.

**************

A/N - 'Dickon' was a medieval nickname for 'Richard' used by people closest to someone with that particular name. It could also be shortened to 'Dick'. Dickon in this refers to Richard III. Elizabeth of York and Henry Tudor married mainly to unite the houses of York and Lancaster but they came to genuinely love one another. After Elizabeth's death, Henry VII shut himself away in solitude and it is said he would allow no one near him other than his mother. He became ill himself and every year had the bells tolled for her on the anniversary of her death. It is said that when he died, it was in part because of a broken heart.


	8. To Be A Plantagenet (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shakespeare said it was the course of true love that never did run smooth, but neither did the course of kingship for the Plantagenet kings of England. Perhaps their bad luck was more than unhappy circumstance, but something in their veins, something in their blood...

1174

Henry sighed angrily.  
He was cold, and bloody tired of it. He was tired, and sick to death of restless nights.

The grey stone walls of the castle were growing cold and the fire in the hearth was doing little to combat the chill that crept in once darkness had fallen.  
Candles burnt in each corner in ornately carved brass holders, but they were not enough. Still there were corners where the light did not reach, where the darkness still reigned.

The heraldry of the royal house of England marked the walls in the forms of flags, coating the walls like tapestries. Deep red they were, with three rampant, raging golden lions, embroidered with only the finest thread money could buy.

The first Plantagenet king of England.

The first Plantagenet king of England with lands stretching vastly on both sides of the channel. And yet in the back of his mind was a niggling bitterness, a sour unhappiness that tainted even his happiest days.

"Sire?" One nameless courtier said enquiringly. Henry had never been good with names. He grunted in acknowledgement, recalling faintly that the man before him was a powerful noble in the South of England.

"This. Have you heard this?" Henry said, indicating towards the scrap of parchment in his hand. The ink was rushed and barely legible.  
Henry scoffed as he read it once more.

The man besides him raised an eyebrow. Henry rolled his eyes.

"My sons. They have rebelled against me, the ungrateful swines." He declared. His eyes were afire with fury, his voice sharp as knives. His fist clenched and slammed onto the table as he spat the word 'swines'.

"My delightful eldest son has decided to rebel against me and take the crown of England for himself. Never mind the fact that I had already given it to the fool. All the boy had to do was to wait until I'm gone and he could have the bloody throne with no complications..." Henry now began to laugh darkly, the actions of his son becoming humorous. "Fucking idiot."

"I beg you sire, but a rebellion? Should I rally forces?" The noble with no name asked.

Henry considered for a moment, his fingers stroking the beard on his chin, and then nodded.

"Aye, better had." He said with a casual nod of the head. "Teach them a bloody lesson." He said with a grim smile. "Oh," he added as the courtier left. "My wife too. Arrest her. She's in on this, mark my words."

The nobleman nodded, and left swiftly, clearly more concerned with the prospect of rebellion than his king was.

Henry was not worried. He knew he could buy his younger sons back with more castles. His eldest son Henry... he was going to be more troublesome, but ah, Henry thought, he'll see sense. No use wasting energy on him. He was hardly the brightest boy.

Now Eleanor... his wife would be a hell of a lot more trouble than all of their sons put together. She was fire and ice, iron and stone. A formidable woman if ever there was.  
Henry was no stranger to strong women - his mother had nearly become queen of England in her own right and fought tooth and nail for his own claim - but Eleanor was something else. She wanted more for herself and more for her sons, and by Jesus she wouldn't rest until she had it.

Ah, Henry thought to himself, she has never forgiven me for my mistresses and bastard children. She will make me unhappy for the rest of my days unless I put an end to her scheming.

Henry II set about his planning. Sitting at a wooden table with ink pots and parchment before him, not once did he consider the fortunes of his house. Not once did he think that the misfortunes of the Plantagenets would not just plague him and he alone.

Never once did he think that each Plantagenet after him would endure their own misery, their own sorrow, their own inner turmoil. Never once did he think that it was this that made them Plantagenets. Not the crowns about their heads or the royal blood running through their veins, but the inescapable inevitability that conflict and hardship would haunt them for as long as they breathed.

\------

1399

Something was dripping.

The constant drip, drip drip was becoming incessantly annoying, especially since the impenetrable darkness made it impossible to see the source of the noise.  
It could have been a leak from the castle up above, or it could have been perspiration dripping from the cold steel bars...

Moonlight filtered softly through the small gap in the wall they had arrogantly called a window, illuminating the grey stone of the walls and floor. Straw had been laid on the floor in the hopes of combatting the chill, but most of it had been pulled out of the straw mattress that lay beneath the 'window'. The man inside the dungeon had had to sacrifice some of the little comfort he had at night in order to obtain some meagre degree of warmth.

He sat on a pile of straw to keep from sitting on the stone that was freezing beneath him. It was December, and upstairs in the castle he could hear merriment taking place. Oh, how he could imagine it. A grand feast there would be, with lavish dishes and the finest delicacies imported from all over Europe. And after the feast there would be gift-giving. How he missed the horrendously extravagant Christmas gifts he used to receive. He recalled fondly the thousands of pounds worth of gifts he had been given by the French king over the years, and all the gold and crystal he had received from his various courtiers and subjects...

Richard longed for it now. It had been weeks since he had tasted any meat, and even the scraps from the turkey would be a God send at the present moment.

They were going to starve him.  
He could see it coming.

Each week he would be delivered a little less food than the week before, until eventually the food would stop coming altogether.  
They had already stopped giving him the three meals a day he was used to. He was down to one full meal and one measly plate of slump. It was probably the same stuff they fed the dogs.

His dark hair was bedraggled and growing long. His once elegant curls were tangled into one dark mass, his pale skin was filthy and ingrained with dirt and dust.  
How far the mighty do fall, he lamented to himself.

He heard footsteps. His ears were sharp, and he discerned that they were stumbling. Ah, he thought to himself, a drunken reveller approaches.  
He grimaced in the darkness.

"Ay up," The reveller said. His voice was loud, the smell of wine was on his breath and on his clothes. He hiccuped loudly. "Whadda we have 'ere?"

Richard rolled his eyes. He hated being in the North. Pontefract Castle was in the midst of Northern territory, and despite it being so dreadfully cold all the bloody time the other thing Richard could not stand was the accents and dialects of the castle servants. So broad and harsh to the ear...

"Your...highness." The man outside the bars said with another hiccup. He stumbled forward until his forehead was resting on the bars. Richard sighed heavily.

"I pray you at least come to bring me some food."

The man scoffed.

"Nope. Ate it all, we did." He said almost smugly. Richard could almost hear the grin on his grubby little face.

"What are you doing down here? Can you not leave me to languish in this lovely cage in peace?"

Again the man scoffed.

"A'ight." He said with a shrug. "Please yerself."

He stumbled away, tripping over his own feet, leaving Richard alone again.

The king's stomach grumbled. The noise echoed, bouncing off the empty cell walls.

"A fine way to treat a king." He muttered bitterly. "Taking my crown and putting somebody else on my throne and then leaving me down here to die."

He sniffed. He was talking to himself again. Spending an extended period of time in a dark cell can do that to a person, and Richard had been down there two months already. The cold and lack of food was driving him mad and he didn't know how much longer he could last before he froze to death.  
\------

It was February.

Richard wrapped his thumb and little finger around his wrist and found that the tips touched. His arms were nothing but matchsticks, his legs had grown thin and weak.  
When he looked down at his waist, he saw bones protruding where they had not before.

He had days left, he imagined.

His throat was dry and he was beginning to hallucinate. It had been two whole days since he had been given anything to drink. Hell, he would welcome even the peasant's water at the moment.  
Headaches haunted him and made it difficult for him to think straight. A constant pounding behind his eyes and a dull thud behind his temples meant it hurt for him to see, and a pain towards the back of his head meant it hurt just to think. He felt as though his brain were drying up, tearing itself away from his skull through lack of hydration.

He was dying.

No, he thought to himself.

I am being murdered. Murdered slowly.

I am the king. Is this how the people of England reward their kings?  
Well perhaps it is, he mused. Perhaps being the second of something is unlucky. Henry II's sons rebelled against him to his dying day, and that wife of his certainly made his life somewhat difficult. And Edward II, rebelled against by his adulterous wife and her lover and replaced on the throne by his son! Only ill can come of being the second king with a certain name, thought Richard.

Like his ancestor Henry, Richard never paused to think that it wasn't just the second's that encountered such bad luck.  
It was in their blood. Plantagenet blood was rife with treachery and disloyalty, and nothing in the world would ever be enough to cleanse it.

It was the day of Saint Valentine.

The February air was cold and damp and permeated the dark cell like a bad smell. Richard shivered and breathed his last.

He was dead. Richard II, the former king, was dead, leaving in his wake a future of brutal warfare for his country, for that is the true Plantagenet legacy.  
\------

1471

"Poor, poor bastard."

"Aye. He's not all there, is he?"

"No. He's as mad as they come, he is."

"Shame, really."

"Aye, a shame. But don't let the king 'ear ye say that."

The two guardsmen spoke lowly in the corridor inside the Tower of London. The passageway was dark save for the torches burning on the walls, but they didn't combat all of the darkness and there still remained corners where it lingered.

It was May, and the day had been unseasonably warm. The tower walls were slick with sweat and heat, and the two men were glad for the shade of both the indoors and the nighttime.  
They were watching one door in particular. It was a simple wooden door - there were no bars - with a simple iron doorknob. It probably wasn't even locked.

The younger of the guards, he who had been the second to speak, stole a glance of the inside through the small window in the door.

"He just... sits there." The younger said softly.

The older shook his head sadly.

"He doesn't have a clue who he even is most days. Didn't even flinch when they told him 'is son was dead." He replied in his thick London accent.

The old man through the window was sitting by the low bed. His hair was greying and tangled, and he wore nothing but an undershirt. Though clean, it was creased and the guard looking was pretty sure it was on back to front.

The man rose, and walked as if in a trance to the wall. He stood and stared at it for a moment, and then sat down again but remained facing the whitewashed plaster. He looked up, and then round at the room about him, but he seemed not to recognise his surroundings. His expression was like that of a child seeing the world for the first time.

"Does he know where he is?" The younger guard asked. The elder shrugged.

"Probably not. Doesn't seem like he does." He shrugged. "It's better for him in here anyway. Safer." He said with a nod. The younger agreed.

"He'd be slaughtered out there. He'd have made a better monk than a king."

"Hah!" The elder guard laughed. "Couldn't have put it better meself. Old King Harry's gone mad, that's fer sure. God help him if he had had to face King Edward at Tewkesbury... he'd be dead alongside his son."

The younger man bit his lip. Something about the whole affair did not sit right with him. The man on the other side of the door was an anointed king, after all. A mad king, but a king nonetheless, and didn't that count for anything anymore?  
Poor Henry, thought the guard. A man with such noble heritage - Plantagenet heritage - left in the Tower whilst his cousin sat on the throne.  
Henry VI seemed to have just about as much luck as the rest of the Plantagenets.

They heard heavy footsteps approaching through the narrow halls, and immediately straightened up and returned to their positions on either side of the wooden door.  
The footsteps came closer, and the elder guard nodded to the constable of the Tower, before bowing deeply. The younger guard, not knowing exactly why, followed suit.

"Rise."

A man stood above them. He was shorter than the constable, but he had an air of grace about him that demanded respect. His hands were gloved in foreign cloth, and on his brown locks sat a black velvet hat adorned with a jewelled pin. At his waist hung a scabbard, the hilt of a silver sword peeking out from the sides of his riding cloak. Whoever this visitor was, he didn't visit the Tower of London lightly. He came armed.

"My lord Duke of Gloucester," said the elder guard in reverence. Gloucester smiled gently, nodding at the guards as they rose to their feet.

"How is he?" He asked. The constable placed a hand on the doorknob and permitted the Duke inside. Gloucester nodded in thanks and entered in silence.  
The wooden slider that covered the window in the door was pushed across to allow the pair their privacy. The Duke emerged not long after. His grim faced visage looked straight at the constable.

"You know my brother's wishes. Make sure they are carried out." He said bluntly. He turned abruptly and left, stalking down the corridors. The constable nodded.

That night men crept silently into the Tower and entered the mad king's room unheralded. The guards had been given the night off, the torches in the hallways extinguished. Old Henry was mad and had no idea who he was. He didn't even try to resist when the two men forced him down and held a pillow over his face.  
\------


End file.
